


kill you or kiss you

by dexdefyingstunts



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bondage, Breathplay, Choking, Comeplay, Community: dckinkmeme, Dom/sub, Feminization, Gangbang, Glory Hole, Humiliation, Lingerie, M/M, Public Humiliation, Rape Fantasy, Stuck in a wall, Under-negotiated Kink, Underage Masturbation, very brief Tim Kon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27633788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dexdefyingstunts/pseuds/dexdefyingstunts
Summary: For the prompt: "As a way of venting his feelings, Damian takes up drawing not very long after moving into the manor. And to vent his feelings about Tim, show how much he wants to knock him down a few pegs and put him in his place... well, he draws him in various, rather degrading scenarios. As he grows, these scenarios start to become more and more sexual, as he becomes more comfortable with it and also realizes just how much more effective and humiliating that would be."
Relationships: Tim Drake/Damian Wayne
Comments: 10
Kudos: 241





	kill you or kiss you

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this delicious prompt](https://dckinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1454.html?thread=2707630) on the dckinkmeme!
> 
> To clarify the warnings: underage warning is for underage masturbation/fantasizing. The rape/noncon and graphic violence warnings both apply to Damian's fantasies/drawings.

Damian storms into his bedroom, snarling and slamming the door behind him.

It had been an absolute disaster of a mission. What should have been a simple takedown was utterly ruined, and all by that _imbecile_ , Drake. Damian grabs his chair and throws it to the ground, angrily. He can still hear Grayson’s voice in his head, rebuking him, _scolding_ him like he’s some kind of child, and Damian hates how much he cares about hearing the disappointment in his voice. The way Grayson said _you need to listen to Red Robin when he makes the call, Damian_. Like Drake is worthy of giving him orders. Like he’s anything better than the scum on the bottom of Damian’s shoes.

Damian’s heart is still beating fast from rage, his blood pumping. Were he not in his father’s house, he would kill Drake where he stood. Remove once and for all this nuisance, this _pretender_. He’d take a dagger and slit his throat. No, he’d take his sword, his very birthright, and remove Drake’s despicable head from his shoulders. Damian can see it so clearly, his beautiful revenge, unfolding like a painting before him.

Now there’s an idea.

Damian grabs his sketchbook from his nightstand and practically rips it open. The scene flows out of his fingers as easily as anything, taking shape on the page as his hand moves quickly. Drake’s stupid, smug face. His body, in his Red Robin uniform, lying crumpled on the ground. His face in the dirt, as it should be. A small pool of blood gathering around him, soaking into the fabric of his suit, coating his overly long hair. And a blade, buried to the hilt in Drake’s back, right where Damian knows it would slide past his ribs and strike his heart. Damian’s sketching in pencil, but he knows if he colored this scene the knife’s handle would be in the Al Ghul colors, a mark of who had put Drake down at last.

Damian pauses, considering. The adrenaline from the fights is starting to fade, but he still feels a boiling, poisonous anger. It’s not enough to kill Drake. There’s no shame in an honorable death. He doesn’t just want to kill Drake, he wants to demean him. Rip away every shred of his dignity, every piece of his false pride in a family he has no claim to. He wants to see him ruined.

Damian adds a boot into the scene, crushing down on Drake’s head. Grinding his face into the dirt. He sketches up, drawing the leg above the boot. It cuts out of the frame at the calf, but Damian knows it’s his foot. Putting Drake in his proper place, beneath Damian’s feet.

Damian looks at the page in his sketchbook. It’s the single most satisfying image he’s ever created. He’s not sure which part is more pleasing, his newfound ability to give image to his thoughts, or the gratifying image he’s created. Damian’s calm, now. The sketch he’s created soothes his rage enough for him to sleep.

In the morning, when Grayson forces him to apologize, Damian states the words with no emotion whatsoever, meeting Drake’s eyes with a flat, neutral expression. All the while, Damian’s thinking of his sketchbook, of the scene playing out in strokes of pencil. _You are nothing compared to me,_ Damian thinks. _And one day, I will show you just how worthless you really are._

**…**

It becomes a bit of a habit, after that.

Damian has to follow Red Robin’s lead out in the field one night. Unfortunately, it goes perfectly, or else Damian might have had an argument to prevent further such intrusions. He sketches Red Robin bound to a chair. There are thick metal cables around his ankles, lashing them tightly to the chair legs. His arms are behind his back, the metal cables wrapped several times around his wrists, enough to cut off circulation, enough to dig in through his armored gloves and make him bleed. Another cable loops around Drake’s neck and attaches to the ones at his wrists, so that every movement he made to try to free himself would result in being choked, cutting off his supply of air, and in the metal digging in to the sensitive skin of his throat, rubbing it raw. A blindfold wraps around Drake’s eyes, and into his mouth is shoved a wadded-up piece of fabric. Blind, bound, and gagged, he would be utterly powerless. Damian finds the fantasy comforting.

Another day, Damian and Drake get into a fight, hurling insults back and forth. Damian calls him a worthless ingrate, and Drake replies that Damian is a spoiled bitch. As revenge, Damian draws Drake crawling around like a dog, on hands and knees. A hobble attaches his legs to prevent him from standing, and thick mitts are locked around his hands to prevent their use. There’s a dog bowl of water on the floor, and Drake is bending to drink from it like an animal. A thick leather collar wraps around Drake’s neck and attached to its heavy metal d-rings are two lengths of chain. The other ends of the chains are bolted into the walls securely. A dark satisfaction floods through Damian once he finishes the piece. _Who’s the bitch now, Drake?_

One night, Father benches Damian, claiming he has been too reckless. None of Grayson’s cajoling words can change his mind, and Batman goes out with Red Robin. Damian’s fury knows no bounds. He fills his sketchbook with pages of Drake locked in a stocks, trapping his neck and wrists. It’s a heavy wooden one, made of rough-hewn, hefty logs. The locks are similarly heavy, in a battered, crude iron. The height of the stocks would force Drake’s back to arch over painfully, placing enormous pressure on his spine where his neck meets his shoulders. Damian imagines Drake being forced to stand in such a position for hours, perhaps days. The pain, the exertion required, the subservient position with his neck stretched outward. It would break him. Of that Damian feels certain. It would wreck him, ruin him, bend him completely to Damian’s will.

There’s a week, in the middle of a summer, where Grandfather comes to Gotham. Not for Damian, not even for Father, but for Drake. It makes Damian’s blood boil. What has Drake ever done to be worthy of the Demon Head’s attention? To be worthy of anything that should be rights belong to Damian alone? This time, the lines on his paper shape into a metal table. Drake lies supine upon it, his arms and legs stretched out into its corners. There are no bonds in this scene, no ropes or leather straps to keep him restrained. Only Drake’s body, lying open, vulnerable, and completely naked. Divested of every mantle he has no claim to. His armor, his uniforms, his titles, his weapons, his lies, all stripped away. With nothing to hide behind, lacking all of his petty tricks, the sketch of Drake is completely exposed and made bare.

It’s this last image that Damian spends the most time looking at. He goes back to it and gazes at it for hours on end. For the life of him, Damian can’t say why it fascinates him so.

**…**

The years pass, as they are wont to do.

When Damian is fifteen, he is forced to attend the annual Wayne Gala. It would be more accurate to say that he has been forced to attend the event ever since coming to live with his father, and the year he is fifteen is no exception.

None of them like these functions, Damian included. All of them always volunteer to patrol instead, but this year Damian hasn’t been so lucky. The girls are running rooftops without them, and Damian dutifully makes his rounds, nodding politely at the Gotham elite which range from well-meaning idiots to downright scum. It might be poor form to wish for an Arkham breakout or an alien invasion, but that would surely be a vastly preferable way to spend his evening. Richard is hardly any help at all, surrounded as he always is by admirers and hangers-on, performing his part flawlessly, as he always does. Part of Damian wishes he had such an instinct for it. If he did, perhaps the crowd would not feel quite so oppressive.

Damian slips away from the ballroom, out into the hallways. Alfred won’t let any of them skive off entirely, but he’s wise enough to allow brief escapes, such that they can all keep their heads on straight. Damian sets out to do a lap of the manor, which will allow him a few minutes of quiet, while still returning well within the threshold for acceptable breaks.

Damian’s walking past one of the coat closets when he hears it. Heavy breathing, the shuffling of fabric, the noise of something wet moving. It’s not difficult to discern what the source of the sounds must be, and Damian keeps walking, content to ignore the amorous exploits of their guests.

And then he hears a laugh.

“B’s gonna kill you.” Drake’s voice, full of amusement.

“Only if he finds out.” The other voice belongs to the clone, and Damian wonders why, exactly, Conner Kent has found himself in Gotham on tonight of all nights.

“You really think he wouldn’t?” More laughter from both of them, more shuffling of fabric.

“Blame it on one of the Ricci boys, he’ll buy that. No, blame it on _Dick_ , he’ll definitely go for that-”

A dull thud, like a punch landing on muscle, and a snorting giggle. Then silence, followed by more soft, wet sounds.

Damian realizes that he’s standing in the hallway, still. His feet stopped moving, at some point, and he’s still outside the door to the coat closet, listening intently.

He doesn’t move.

There’s a whimpering, keening sound from inside the closet, high-pitched and sweet. It’s followed by shushing. “Keep quiet, now. Don’t want them to hear you.” Kent’s voice. More little noises like bodies moving together, another muffled moan.

It occurs to Damian that Kent is definitely able to hear his heartbeat, lingering in the otherwise abandoned hallway. He most certainly would have noticed it, were he not otherwise occupied, and Damian had best be going before he recovers full use of his faculties.

Damian pads away softly, into the night.

Later, Drake comes traipsing back into the ballroom. His clothes are fastidiously straightened, not a piece out of place to suggest he’d been doing anything other than stepping out for air. But there’s the tiniest flush to his neck, the mottled-red skin an unmistakable giveaway, belying the truth of his excursion to anyone who cares to notice.

**…**

Damian’s drawings start to change.

He sketches the scene in the coat closet several different times, trying to piece together what had been happening just based on what he had overheard. In his sketchbook, it always ends very differently than it had the night of the gala. In the scenes he draws, the doors to the closet are thrown open wide, revealing the two boys in their compromising position. Sometimes the person discovering them is Damian. Sometimes it’s Father, his face set in disapproval, causing Kent and Drake to spring apart, mortified at being caught. More often, it’s other guests at the gala. The door springs open, and on one side is the two boys, caught in the act. On the other is the entire ballroom, full of all their very important guests, businesspeople, journalists, prominent figures. And Drake is exposed to all of them, so they can all see just what a slut he is.

This new idea for humiliating Drake is an attractive one, so full of possibilities. So many new ways to imagine him ruined and filthy.

Damian draws Drake at Wayne Enterprises. Not in his current role as CEO, but in a much more appropriate role as office whore. In his sketches, Drake is on his knees under a table, servicing old men with his mouth. He’s bent over a table in a conference room, his hands bound together above his head with his own silk tie. A rip has been made in the seat of his expensive trousers, revealing his hole, which is stretched open and dripping semen. He’s passed around the WE Board, completely naked while everyone else is in suits. Drake sits on the laps of powerful men in their opulent chairs, limbs bound, being bounced up and down on their cocks and then handed over to the next person for their use.

Damian draws Drake in a public restroom, the filthy sort found in nightclubs in the seediest parts of Gotham. He’s on his knees in a bathroom stall, facing a hole in the wall. A cock slides through the wall and directly into Drake’s waiting mouth. Dozens of strangers come and use him, come all over his face, all over his front, and down his throat, making Drake to swallow it, load after load of semen. He would never know who was using him, only that he was being used. Damian can’t decide which way he prefers: Drake kneeling patiently at the glory hole, begging for his mouth to be fucked. Or, to have him bound and locked in place, unable to move, a ring gag buckled into his mouth, forcing him to stay open, to take this degrading treatment even as he struggles to get away. So, Damian draws it both ways.

It’s even better than the sketches before were. More humiliating, more degrading. More of a violation, to imagine Drake debased in this way. That must be why Damian finds the drawings so appealing.

**…**

There isn’t exactly a catalyst, when it happens. No specific fight, no particular insult or slight to cause Damian to seek vengeance and create the drawing in question. He’s lying on his stomach on the bed, sketching whatever comes into his mind. He flips a page, and looking at the blank expanse of paper, his thoughts are drawn to one of his favorite subjects.

Damian draws Drake trapped in a wall. He’s wearing civilian clothing, this time, his preferred jeans and t-shirt. His front half is hidden from view, as Drake is wedged into the tight space, the wall trapping down on his hips. He would be stuck there, utterly vulnerable to anybody who happened to pass by. And Damian draws that happening too. He adds to the scene three older men happening upon Drake, ripping his jeans open and taking their own pleasure, fucking his asshole til it’s raw and red, swollen and puffy, covered in fluids.

Damian flips the page and starts another drawing, of the same scenario. He imagines coming across Drake in such a state, having already been taken advantage of by god knows how many people. Come dripping out of his hole, onto his legs. His body limp and exhausted from fighting, having now given up, utterly degraded and used. Drake wouldn’t know it was him, discovering his trapped, ruined body. He’d be able to slip right in, shove his cock right into Drake’s wet, destroyed hole, and fuck him like the filthy little slut he is, add his own come to the dripping mess leaking out of him.

Damian’s mind is full of rage and hate, imagining such a punishment for Drake, when all at once, he realizes he’s hard. His cock is pressing into the bed, and his hips are moving in tiny little circles without his own volition. It’s perverted and disgusting, Damian knows, for him to get off on the idea of his adopted brother being raped and abused. Somehow, that only makes it hotter.

Damian stays on his stomach, rocking against the bed as he sketches, adding details to the drawing, adding a close-up view of Drake’s ruined, sloppy hole. When Damian comes, spilling all over the mattress beneath him, he comes thinking of Drake’s face, trapped on the other side of the wall, crying and begging for mercy.

**…**

As Damian gets older, he keeps up the old habit. His sketchbooks fill with drawings- many of other subjects, but many also of Drake. Drake flits in and out of the manor, much as Richard and Todd do. By the time Damian is 17, he and Drake are on largely civil terms, facilitated by a polite distance between them.

One night, they’re running a mission, one large enough that Nightwing and Red Robin have been called in. Damian and Drake are investigating a warehouse on the outskirts of Gotham, searching for evidence of suspicious chemicals research.

Naturally, the warehouse explodes.

Robin and Red Robin get out just in time, swinging onto a nearby roof. They’re followed by the heat of the explosion, the cacophony as the building goes down, a rain of ash. The two vigilantes move quickly, running at full tilt to get away from the blast.

As they run, Damian misjudges his footing, ever so slightly, and tilts into the open air over the edge of the roof.

He reacts instantly, of course, twisting in midair, one foot still touching the rooftop’s edge. Damian’s hand reaches automatically for his grapple. But he doesn’t ever get that far, because Drake’s hands are wrapping around his wrist, stopping his momentum with a sudden jerk.

Damian’s heart races. For a split second, he’s suspended in the air, hundreds of feet above the ground. His only tether to safety is Drake’s grasp.

And then Drake is pulling him up, and the moment snaps.

“Are you alright?” Drake asks. He sounds sincere, but not overly concerned. Appropriate, considering Damian is still on his feet.

Damian waits for the old, familiar rage to well up inside him. For the bitter hatred at being saved by such a weakling, such an unworthy holder of the mantle of Robin.

It doesn’t come.

“I am fine,” Damian replies, rolling his shoulder. His heart’s still beating quickly, but only from the adrenaline, as his anger still fails to materialize. “Shall we continue?”

Drake, to his credit, does not press, and only nods. He taps into his com. “You catch that, O? The mad scientists covered their tracks.”

Oracle’s voice crackles to life in Damian’s earpiece. “Yeah, caught it. Bomb-happy nutjobs, what else isn’t new.”

“Gotta have an appreciation for the classics,” Drake quips.

Gordon snorts. “Classic. Right. I’ve got another warehouse, the shady clinic, or an abandoned veterinary hospital.”

“Let’s go door number 3,” Drake decides. He moves to the edge of the roof and pulls out his grapple gun, then looks back at Damian. “You coming, Robin?”

Damian doesn’t hesitate, moving forward relentlessly, and the two vigilantes swing off into the night.

He wonders when he came to trust Drake so much, because this doesn’t feel new. It feels easy. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world, to let Drake make the call.

Damian wonders what that means.

**…**

The weeks afterward pass much the same as the weeks before.

Despite Damian’s revelation, he keeps making his sketches.

He draws a scene in the command center of the Watchtower. Drake is in his Red Robin uniform. Or at least, a variation of it, one that would be wildly impractical for combat. Drake still has his utility belts, one crossing his chest in an X, the other around his hips. He still has the gloves, the boots, the mask. But the rest of the suit has been nearly all eliminated, leaving his chest bare, only leaving him a small scrap of fabric as a pair of shorts. And even that is missing a certain piece of fabric in the back, leaving Drake’s hole exposed. Drake is on his hands and knees. Around him is the entire Justice League. Or at least, as many of them as Damian can fit in the space. The other Bats are to one side, Father, Richard, Jason, and Damian all watching. The Titans are there, the Team- all the vigilantes and superheroes Damian knows, all gathered to witness. In one frame, it’s just like that. Everyone seeing Drake in the mockery of his uniform, on all fours in the center of the room. In another, Damian draws Clark taking Drake’s ass and Conner taking his mouth, Drake’s body roughly shoved back and forth between the two impossibly strong aliens. In a third, Diana has her lasso around Drake’s throat, choking him as he gets fucked, a line of League members behind him, waiting for their turn with the new toy. Damian gets off at least four times, drawing different variations of that fantasy.

The embarrassing outfits become a new running theme, as Damian masters capturing the flow of fabrics, the textures of clothes. Damian draws Drake in women’s lingerie, a pretty, lacy red set that’s very nearly Drake’s signature color. He draws him in a schoolgirl outfit, with a pleated plaid miniskirt in red and black that barely covers his ass. A classic maid’s outfit, all black and white frills. Damian even draws Drake in a certain golden metal bikini, with a golden collar around his throat, an attached golden chain draping down his body. Damian is certain Drake would find that one to be particularly impactful.

There is one thing Damian becomes uncertain of, after that night on the roof. If Damian doesn’t hate Drake anymore, and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t, then why is he still making these drawings? Why does he continue to draw him in these humiliating scenarios, still spend his time imagining ways he could degrade him? He gets off on it, certainly. But surely there would be a better candidate for such fantasies. One of Damian’s actual enemies, if his wish is a fantasy of ruining someone. Or someone that Damian actually likes, if the interest is merely sexual.

More months go by, till one dark morning, Damian finds himself alone in bed, with a specific, familiar craving. Damian sketches Drake’s face, first. It’s gotten easy to do, after all this time. His hands know the curves of it, the sharp angles, the shapes of his eyes. This particular rendition is true to size, and it takes up most of the page, looking up at him.

But Damian doesn’t stop there. He never stops there. He draws Drake’s mouth as wide open, jaw stretched, and then fills it, a few quick lines becoming a cock shoved deep down Drake’s throat. Just like that, Damian transforms Drake’s face into a little fuckhole, his mouth into a place to be violated by a cock. A sweet, delicious retribution.

Damian studies the lines, the shape of the cock coming into being on the page. It’s his own, Damian realizes. He’s drawn his own cock, sliding past Drake’s lips, into what must be a delicious, wet, heat. Damian savors the thought of claiming Drake’s mouth this way. How beautiful that would be.

Damian keeps sketching. He makes Drake’s expression twist, makes him look humiliated. Utterly destroyed by Damian’s cock in his mouth. He finally perfects it, the completely wrecked look on Drake’s face at being so degraded. It’s not exactly a look that Damian’s seen before. But oh, how he would love to.

Damian inspects his drawing. It’s not finished yet. It needs something, something more. Something to wipe that smirk off of Drake’s face.

Damian presses his pencil back to the paper, over the lines of Drake’s face. It’s difficult, conveying liquid over skin when one is using the same tool for both textures, but Damian feels confident that the distinction is present. He covers Drake’s face in spatters of semen. There are dashes across his forehead, droplets dripping into his eyelashes. A smear covering his cheek. A dribble leaking out the corner of his mouth, where it’s stretched around Damian’s cock.

Now it’s perfect. Now Drake’s face is debauched and filthy, utterly ruined, covered in Damian’s come.

Damian sets his pencils down. He’s aching. He’s hard and aching in his pants, at the thought of fucking Drake’s mouth, of covering him in his come. At the sight of what he’s drawn, strikingly realistic, so close to the real thing it’s hardly a stretch to see the whole scene playing out in front of his eyes.

His hands tangled tight in Drake’s hair. His cock shoved deep down his throat, fucking it, using it. Damian slips out of his pants and wraps a hand around his cock, stroking quickly. Drake on his knees before Damian. His mouth open wide, tongue hanging out in humiliating fashion, eagerly lapping up Damian’s semen as it covers his mouth, his face, his front.

When Damian actually comes, he spills all over his sketchbook. Hot ropes of come fall directly onto the sketched face of Timothy Drake. His actual come joins the sketched variety, covering the page, rendering the image utterly debauched, completely ruined, exactly as Drake’s face should be. Damian is going to have to retire this sketchbook, he thinks hazily. But it’s worth it, for the one glorious moment where Damian can see exactly what his come looks like, dripping down Drake’s face. _Mine_ , Damian thinks. _Marked and claimed and mine._

Oh.

Well. That does answer that question.

Damian’s still panting, caught in the afterglow, hand still around his cock. This is why he still finds himself drawing these filthy images of Drake.

(No, not Drake, Damian corrects himself. Tim. If he’s honest, Damian started thinking of him as Tim a long time ago.)

It’s because, god damn him, Damian wants Tim. Wants him to be his, in his bed, owned and loved and used and cherished. All of those things at once, somehow.

Damian closes his eyes. _Fuck_.

Getting off on Tim’s humiliation was one thing. Easily explained away, hormones and adrenaline.

To his despair, Damian is quickly becoming convinced this might be something else entirely.

**…**

Damian has never tried to hide his sketchbooks. That may seem a foolish decision to anyone not trained by Gotham’s Bat. But Damian knows that carefully hiding his works will only tip the rest of the family off that he is hiding something. Once given a reason to snoop, it would only be a matter of time before his secret was discovered.

Still, he isn’t expecting to open the door to his bedroom and see Tim sitting on his bed, one of the sketchbooks open in his lap and several others scattered around him.

Damian freezes in his tracks, arrested by the sight of Drake holding his sketchbook, face-to-face at last with all of Damian’s sins.

Tim looks up at him. “I gotta admit. I wasn’t expecting this.”

Damian steps cautiously into the room, shutting the door behind him. “What were you expecting, then?”

Tim shrugs. “Dunno. Probably be too much to expect you to have, y’know, a normal porn stash. Titty magazines under the bed or something.”

Damian raises an eyebrow. “Such materials are very rarely appealing.”

Tim laughs, closing the sketchbook and setting it to one side, on top of a pile of others. “Yeah. Shoulda known better.”

Damian waits for Tim to say something. To demand Damian burn all of the pornographic drawings of him. To threaten to kill him. To cross the room and punch him.

Bafflingly, Tim does none of these things.

Damian cocks his head to one side, curious. Tim stands up but doesn’t move closer to him. Damian stays where he is, waiting, limbs in a loose defensive stance.

“Go on, then.” Tim speaks as though issuing a challenge, eyebrows raised, gaze steely. “Ask me.”

Damian studies Tim for a moment, but Tim’s face betrays nothing of what he’s thinking. Damian acquiesces. “What did you think?”

Tim takes a step forward, and then another. A small, cocky smile plays around his lips. “Oh, y’know. I think your art’s gotten a lot better over the past few years.” Tim steps again, closing the distance between them, looking up at Damian, and then Damian’s brain ceases its machinations entirely, because Tim is kissing him, deep and slow. He tastes so good, and the feeling of his mouth is even better than Damian had imagined, and nothing in the world could stop Damian from reaching down, wrapping an arm around Tim’s shoulders and pulling him in close.

The moment stretches out, impossibly long, impossibly sweet. The world is silent, utterly empty expect for the noises of their mouths, their little panting breaths. Damian kisses Tim over and over, and Tim kisses back just as hungrily.

Tim pulls away from Damian’s mouth only to press a kiss to his neck, then lean in towards Damian’s ear. “Fuck me,” Tim breathes. “Fuck me like you did in those drawings.”

To say it’s the most arousing thing Damian has ever heard would be quite an understatement. The blood in his body has entirely abandoned his brain, and Damian lets out a dark little growl, tugging Tim in for another deep, filthy kiss.

“Is that what you want, Drake?” The surname slips out through force of old habit.

Tim frowns. “Don’t call me that,” Tim says. “Not if we’re going to do this.”

Damian nods. “What would you like me to call you, then?” His fingers fly up to Tim’s throat, lightly circling it. Tim makes no move to stop him, though his breath hitches.

“Bitch?”

Tim lets out a little breath of air, and when he speaks, his voice has gone low and lustful. “Yes.”

Damian raises his other hand, slow enough to clearly telegraph his intention. Tim makes no move to avoid it, staying shivering in place, keeping eye contact. There’s nothing in his eyes but want, plain as anything. And oh, how happy Damian is to give Tim what he wants. Damian slaps Tim across the face. Not a damaging strike, but hardly a gentle one. He’s careful with his aim, landing the hit across Drake’s cheek, avoiding his ear and the more fragile areas by his nose and eyes. Tim lets out a little noise, eyes fluttering closed. It’s deliciously gratifying.

“Slut?” Another slap.

“Yes.”

“Whore? Toy?” Slap, slap.

“Yes,” Tim gasps out. “All of those, yes.”

Damian smiles. It’s an evil, wicked smile, he knows. The kind one might expect from a man with a knife at a throat, or standing in the moonlight covered in blood not his own. The expression doesn’t seem to scare Tim, though. It only makes his eyes flutter again, makes him let out a little keen of wanting.

“I should have known you’d like this,” Damian purrs, his grasp tightening around Tim’s throat. “Little whore for me.”

Tim’s body relaxes, his head tilting back, leaving himself pliant and completely at Damian’s mercy.

It feels like victory.

Damian pushes forward, still holding Tim firmly by the throat, forcing him to stumble backwards. Damian throws Tim onto the bed, flat on his back, which earns him another little gasp. Damian climbs on top of him, straddling Tim’s hips, and grabs Tim by the wrists, yanking them up above Tim’s head and pinning them firmly to the bed. Tim looks up at him, needy and wanting and adoring, and Damian has to lean down to kiss him again, claiming his mouth fiercely. There’s an unmistakable bulge against Damian’s thigh, and Damian’s own erection is aching already, pressing into Tim’s stomach.

Damian doesn’t want to let Tim’s wrists go, doesn’t want to release him from where he’s finally pinned down beneath Damian. But he does very much want to fuck him, so he shifts both of Tim’s wrists into one hand, freeing the other to fumble with his pants.

“Here,” Tim says, twisting over, reaching for something. Damian lets him, loosing his grasp.

From beneath the bed, Tim pulls out a pair of red and black leather cuffs.

Damian stares at cuffs as Tim offers them to him. “You planned this.”

Tim grins. “When do I do anything without planning for it.”

An accurate assessment, but rather far from the point.

“You knew,” Damian says. He takes the offered cuffs, and Tim stretches out his arms above his head again, crossing his wrists next to the headboard and waiting to be bound, still smiling deviously. Damian leans above him, wrapping the cuffs around his wrists. He checks the tightness with a finger before buckling the cuffs securely closed, looping the attached short chain through the headboard before latching the cuffs together.

Damian moves back down Tim’s body and gives him another kiss. “How long have you known?” Damian moves his head down to Tim’s neck and bites, hard, leaving a dark mottled mark that will surely bruise.

Tim shudders at the feeling of Damian’s teeth, letting out a delicious little noise. “Long enough.”

Damian swings his leg back over, getting off of Tim long enough to yank Tim’s pants down.

He’s not prepared for the sight of Tim’s cock straining against a pair of red satin panties. The color stands out gorgeously against his skin, and there’s a little wet spot where Tim’s leaking into them.

Tim smirks up at him. “Like what you see?”

Damian backhands him across the face. “Slut.” He hits him again. “Filthy little whore.” He hits him again, and that wipes the smirk off his face, and Tim makes a high-pitched, needy little noise. Damian grabs his jaw with one hand and shoves two fingers into Tim’s mouth with the other. Tim sucks on them eagerly, drooling around them. “That’s it,” Damian croons. “Gag for it like the little slut you are.”

Damian leans over to grab a bottle of lube out of the nightstand, then arranges himself between Tim’s legs, grabbing one and resting it on his shoulder, keeping Tim’s legs spread wide open. He slicks up his fingers, then slides them underneath the soft fabric of the panties, finding Tim’s hole and rubbing against it.

“Please,” Tim begs. He tugs against his bound arms, squirming against Damian. “Please fuck me, please.”

Damian slides a finger in, fast enough to make Tim gasp. “Needy little whore. So desperate for me.” He works his finger in and out, feeling the way Tim opens up for him.

Tim whines. “Fuck, yes, I’m a little whore, I need it, please-”

Damian adds another finger, and Tim interrupts himself with a keen, rocking back and forth on Damian’s fingers.

“Give me your cock,” Tim gasps. “I can take it, Damian, please.”

Damian growls and yanks his fingers out. He unzips his pants and pulls his cock out hurriedly, pouring more lube onto himself. He tugs the panties to one side and lines himself up, then pushes forward, slowly sinking into Tim’s hot, tight body. Tim gives a little whimper, and Damian can’t help but moan at how good it feels.

“Just a little bitch,” Damian says, rocking his hips, starting to move, thrusting in and out of Tim’s body. “A nice little fuckhole for me.”

“Yes,” Tim says, breathless and needy. “Use me, Damian, oh god-”

Damian reaches down and wraps his hand around Tim’s throat, cutting off his words, strangling his moans and whimpers, holding him steady so Damian can fuck him harder, take him, use him. “My bitch.” Tim’s eyes flutter again as he clenches down on Damian’s cock, and he gives the tiniest little nod. “My whore, my slut. _Mine_.”

Damian comes hard, his vision going purely white, lost in the pleasure.

Slowly, his hips still, and he unwraps his fingers from Tim’s throat. Tim’s making needy little noises, his hips twitching forward in little movements, his cock positively straining against the panties. Damian slides out of Tim, and watches as his come starts to drip out of Tim’s hole, all over the bed, the panties, his thighs. Damian tugs the panties back into place, trapping all his come inside them.

Tim twists against his restraints again, hips bucking into the air. “Damian, please. Please touch me?”

Damian’s hand trails up Tim’s thigh, teasing at the edge of the panties. “Filthy little fucktoy. You want to come?”

Tim nods frantically, body twisting towards Damian’s hand.

“Say it.”

“I wanna come,” Tim whimpers. “I’m your fucktoy, I’m just your little bitch, please let me come.”

Damian purrs in satisfaction, slipping his hand into Tim’s panties, getting his hand around Tim’s cock. “Come. Come for me, you pretty little whore.” It barely takes anything becomes Tim’s crying out, back arching up off of the bed as he comes, making another mess inside of his panties.

That pair is completely ruined, now. That’s alright. Damian will buy him new ones.

“So good,” Damian murmurs, leaning down to kiss Tim softly. “Good bitch.” Tim kisses back weakly.

Damian reaches up to the headboard and releases the chain, allowing Tim to bring his hands down. Damian lies down next to him, and Tim immediately curls into him, resting his head on Damian’s shoulder. Damian wraps an arm around him and pets Tim’s shoulder. He lets his own eyes fall closed, his heart still racing, basking in the afterglow.

“Dami?” Tim mumbles the word into Damian’s chest.

“Yes?”

“Next time you should come on my face.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love!
> 
> (if anybody wants to draw any of the art mentioned in this fic you have my blanket permission and also I would love you 5ever)


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